The Flavors of Entanglement
by northboundtrains
Summary: During the first night as newlyweds, Mr. Thornton unknowingly places Margaret in a delicate situation. As a result, Margaret has to cope with her growing mental stuggles, for her own wishes and desires collide with the ideas society has for her.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: **

**I finished the first version of this fic back in May 2013. Back then, I had only recently fallen in love with ****_North and South_**** (both the novel and the miniseries), and I loved the story so much that I decided to write something. Ever since I finished the first version I have revised this story many, ****_many_**** times, and most of those changes were based upon character insights I gained after discussing the original narrative with people on the internet. **

**The narrative is set in the series-verse, starting during Margaret's/Mr. Thornton's wedding night. It is a pastiche fic without a solid plot that consists of six episodes, each focusing on a step on the journey towards (sexual) intimacy. I have divided the story into three chapters: the first chapter consists of the first four episodes, simply because they do not contain any M-rated content. The second and third chapter definitely do deserve the M-rated label, so you can skip those if that is not your cup of tea.**

**I hope you enjoy this fic, and please tell me what you think. Constructive criticism is very welcome!**

**_The Flavors of Entanglement_**

**_When we touch someone, even if it is just the slightest brush of hands, we might be able to tell whether the taste of the touch was enjoyable or not; whether the flavor was sweet, or sour, or decorated with the riches of spices. As affection craving humans, we try to aim for the sweetest, most delicate flavors, but we cannot always avoid the bitter or the worse._**

**I.** **Sour**

During her first night as a married woman, Margaret was told to close the door and sit down on the edge of the new double bed, the very one she had to call her own. She obliged without saying a word, trying to ignore the uncomfortable knot in her stomach, and failing. She forced herself to stay seated, hands in her lap, her heart in her throat.

Upon noticing her anxiety, Mr. Thornton sat down next to her and covered her folded hands with his own. He looked more blissful than she had ever seen him before, Margaret decided, and this observation made her feel even guiltier about feeling the way she did.

Her guilt disappeared when he started talking, his speech headed in quite the opposite way of what she had been expecting. He assured her she would not have to fret, because what she was dreading so much would not happen that night. She sighed, the tension she had been burdened with leaving her body slowly. She could not deny that she was relieved because of his decision, but she still felt like she had failed him somehow. She asked him whether something was wrong, and if she could do anything to make it right.

"Margaret, believe me when I say there is no need to feel guilty," he said reassuringly. He proceeded to explain that even though he loved her ardently, he felt it was not fair if he exposed her (or himself for that matter, he added coyly) to that experience yet. He felt she did not know him well enough and vice versa, and thus he wanted to wait.

Margaret nodded, but she did not quite know what experience she had been saved from: she was only vaguely aware of what was still awaiting her, and she despised her own ignorance. She did not know the details, everything she knew she had gathered from hearsay. From what she understood these messages were conflicting, the experience differing from person to person. Up until that point, Margaret had always relied on written sources, but the physical aspect of marriage was something not even her excessive reading habit could help her with.

"How long do you wish to wait?" she asked, that uneasy feeling entering her body once again.

He remained silent for a while, contemplating her question. She could not tell if he was waiting to answer because he had to count the days, or because he had already figured out the number before her inquiry, and wanted to delay the answer because he did not want to come across as too eager.

"What if we waited until the first of July? Twenty-seven days. Would that be reasonable?" he asked.

Margaret nodded in reply, engraving the date in her mind.

He then asked her if he could kiss her every night before going to sleep, and the doubt in his voice made it sound as though he did not think himself worth it. She told him he should not to be afraid because she would comply to that request more than happily. She demonstrated how much she was willing to engage in the ritual of good-night kisses, and at that moment she could feel the tension leaving his body as well.

**II.** **Sweet**

Getting to know each other involved short episodes of conversation over breakfast and dinner, and sometimes in between if time allowed it. These moments helped to build a mutual understanding and trust between the two of them.

During the first few days of their agreement, Margaret hesitated to talk because she hated to disrupt her husband's daily life. This attitude changed when she became conscious of the fact that he always took the time and effort to ask her about her own day. Sometimes she had been spending her time on a piece of embroidery, even though this bored her easily because she preferred to read - much to her mother-in-law's disapproval. Margaret was not too affected by this scorn, since she had long ago given up on trying to please Hannah Thornton every single time.

Margaret quickly understood that all of the conversations that transpired between her and Mr. Thornton were part of a process that involved rearranging those tiny fragments of their histories to form a coherent bond.

She had not expected that same process to involve long hours of the both of them talking in the darkness of their bed chamber, him sitting back against the head of the bed, and her head resting against his shoulder or chest. Even though this quickly evolving habit made her miss out on at least an hour of sleep every night, their conversations did not feel like wasted time. In the mornings she often remembered the feeling of his heart beating against her fingertips, and his natural scent as it lingered on his pillow.

Because of the stories he told her she began to feel like she genuinely started to get to know the fine layers of his personality, and not just the superficial way she had perceived him during the time before their marriage. It did not just assure her of her love for him: it lead to a rebirth of her affections. Naturally he was still the same man, but his stories had settled in his mind, and she was allowed to call them hers now. She would never dare to admit that it was a thought that crossed her mind frequently, as people would have thought it unruly for a woman to think of her husband like that.

Margaret told him about her childhood, even though he often avoided this topic when it came to his own background, and understandably so. At times, when she was telling him a particularly funny story, she could see the smile on his face, and sometimes she could feel his mouth curl against her ear if their position allowed his lips to brush against her skin. She felt accomplished whenever his chuckle developed into a full laugh - a deep sound that rang in her ears and reverberated through his chest onto her cheeks.

She always made sure she was wearing her nightgown whenever he entered their room at night. Before he could see her she had always combed through her hair with her fingers, the waves in her hair making it nearly impossible to use a regular brush if she did not want it to become unwieldy. Even if she was rather tired, she would hold onto her promise loyally and wait for him to come and kiss her good-night.

Margaret started to see a pattern in the ways he engaged in this act of affection: whenever he was tired his kisses were short but tender, a perfect way to prepare for a night of well-deserved sleep. Their kisses started to last longer when he had to get rid of an overflow of emotions. Most of the time this meant that he was happy, and even though he would never explicitly show his good spirits to others he would always find a way to let her know how he felt.

Even though she enjoyed his good moods quite well, she secretly longed for the nights when he came home frustrated with the weight of the world. She always let him rage if he felt the need to, and when his anger had subsided he would look at her, as though ashamed of his outburst, and kiss the concerned look off her face. On these nights she could feel a certain degree of desperateness in the way his mouth moved against hers.

It was on one of those nights that he felt the need to intensify their kisses, in a way he had not attempted before.

The first time she felt his tongue against her upper lip she backed away. She was unable to hide her surprise or stifle the short, uncomfortable laugh that came out of her mouth. He looked slightly hurt, which made Margaret feel ashamed of her response.

"I did not mean to do that," she said softly, "please, try again."

This time when she felt him repeating the action she opened her mouth tentatively, and she could hear the contented hum-like noise coming from the back of his throat. His tongue felt strangely warm and foreign against her own, but that wasn't what made her feel uncomfortable: her uneasiness was caused by something entirely different. There was an ache in between her legs that she had never felt so consciously before. There was no doubt in her mind that the way he was kissing her was related to this feeling.

**III. Bitter**

"Whatever is troubling your mind, dear, you can tell me," Mr. Thornton told her.

Margaret found herself standing before her husband, her arms wrapped around her fully dressed body protectively while staring at the wooden floor.

Shyness was not a common occurrence for Margaret, but when it came to acts of intimacy she preferred not to discuss whatever was on her mind. She realized she had no choice this time, because her husband was staring down at her, patiently awaiting what she wanted to tell him.

"I never know where to place my hands when you kiss me," she said eventually, embarrassment as well as frustration shining through as she spoke. Her problem was that her hands either remained in her lap stoically whenever he kissed her, or meekly held onto his arms. It all depended on whether they were sitting or standing up, but her limbs were never fully engaged, not like his were. He always found new places where his hands could hold onto her, although his favorite place remained the sides of her head.

"I believe you do know," Mr. Thornton said.

She looked at him in great confusion. Did she? She could not imagine how.

"Allow me to show you," he continued, and reached for her arms, slowly untangling them from their position around her stomach. He then took her left hand and placed it on his shoulder. She took his actions as an incentive to do the same with her right hand, her thumb brushing against the side of his neck. When she spread her fingers so she could hold on to a broader surface she could feel his muscles move underneath his skin.

"Oh," she said, as his implications became clear to her, the memory of what happened during the riots flashed before her eyes, "I _do_. I remember, I-" her voice faltered, and yet she smiled, "shall I kiss you now?"

"If you please," was his amused reply.

She leaned in, and she could not help the feeling of pride caused by instigating the kiss. She had to stand on the tips of her toes because of their height difference, and she did not want him to have to bend down for her. By means of an experiment, her hands moved from his shoulders to his neck. When that proved to be uncomfortable, her hands slid down his arms again and hooked them around his waist, embracing him in that way.

"You are starting to learn," he said proudly when she stepped back onto the soles of her feet again, her hands still clasped around him.

Margaret thought this remark to be slightly inappropriate because it implied that he was her teacher, even though he was barely more experienced than her. She could not quite tell why he came across as more knowledgeable, but she figured it had something to do with the idea that he felt no shame in letting his body do the talking. Physical gestures had always been his preferred mode of communication, after all.

**IV.** **Savory**

Margaret had fallen asleep on the bed before she had had the chance to say good-night to her husband. She had been waiting for him to join her, clad in her nightgown, but she had been terribly exhausted. Eventually she had given into her body's yearning for rest, and she had fallen asleep along the width of the bed. She was lying on her right side, one arm curled around her stomach, the other next to her head. Some strands of hair had fallen across her face, moving up and down along with the rest of her body as she breathed in and out.

In the world between wake and sleep, Margaret scrunched her nose while the door creaked in its hinges as it opened. She tried to ignore the sound, since the world of sleep was doing its very best to win her over. She heard someone rustling around, and realized she had better wake up completely, for that person had to be her husband.

Her eyes flew open when he lay down on the mattress next to her, still fully clothed save for his cravat and coat. He was lying on his side and facing her with that very specific sentiment that made the skin around his eyes wrinkle (and Margaret's stomach flutter, for she was the object of his adorations).

"You must be tired," he said, brushing the hair out of her face. She smiled lazily, not knowing how to reply to something so blatantly obvious.

Mr. Thornton kissed the tip of her nose, but Margaret could see the look in his eyes that she had come to known as his desperation for wanting to press his mouth against hers, and not just her nose. He did not deny himself that pleasure, and Margaret found herself holding her breath when he rolled her onto her back, his upper body pressing hers into the mattress. His right hand reached for her neck, and she could feel his thumb brushing against the skin just below her ear.

Slowly but surely this type of physical contact had become interwoven with their nightly rituals, and every private touch they relished and every affectionate caress they shared made them grow closer together. Even though the warmth of his hands had become increasingly familiar to Margaret, it did not mean that her body accepted all his physical love unprotestingly. She was still temporarily ashamed every time he touched her body below the line of her clavicles, whether that touch was an accidental occurrence or not.

This unfortunate reaction happened especially when his palms collided with her ribs and his fingers had explored the underside of her breasts through the fabric of her nightgown. Though his caresses did not feel unpleasant, she often had to ask him to cease his ministrations because everything became too overwhelming. He would stammer a confused apology at that, looking down at his hands as though they had wandered to that part of her body all by themselves.

Margaret had promised herself to listen to her body rather than simply wondering if the things she thought of would be too improper or impossible at that moment. After all, the man she loved seemed to be capable of listening to his own wants and needs, and she wished she was able to give into her whims as easily as he could. If he was going to teach her, she might as well put his lessons into practice.

This idea had stayed etched into her mind while he had pinned her down, so she reacted immediately when he stopped kissing her for a moment.

She closed her eyes. When she was certain that her mind was devoid of humiliation, she shifted her legs and urged him to lie down in the space in between them. As a result he came to lie fully on top of her, creating an even more intimate position, albeit slightly less convenient for her. His weight pressed against her chest, making it hard for her to breathe. She pushed her hands against his shoulders to catch his attention. She needed him to know that his position was not convenient for her.

"I do not want you to stop," she said, "but you are too heavy."

He apologized, leaning back on his elbows, making sure he could no longer obstruct her lungs. She could now feel the emphasis of his body in other places. She felt her breath hitch in her throat as a sign of panic; she did not know where to go from there. He remained static, and it seemed he did not know what to do, either.

Margaret smiled up. Mr. Thornton tried to kiss the smile off her lips. He failed the first time, but that did not make him less determined to try again. By his third try her smile had faded, and he started kissing down her neck instead. She did not understand when that part of her anatomy become so sensitive - perhaps the sensation had always been there, hidden away, and it had merely needed the right key to be unlocked.

His hand replaced his mouth, his fingers dipping into the neckline of her nightgown only just slightly, the tips of his fingers brushing against her collar bone.

Margaret yawned and promptly covered her mouth with her hand, knowing this to be a completely inappropriate response to what he was doing.

"You _are_ exhausted," Mr. Thornton said, his voiced laced with indignation because Margaret had given that sort of reaction to the brush of his hand. It had been an expression of fondness and Margaret felt embarrassed because her body had rejected him.

"I am, and I am sorry," she said, "it is not your fault."

"You leave me with an easy choice. Sleep, it is."

He left her with one soft, lingering kiss before moving away. His absence left the front of her body unpleasantly cold.


	2. Chapter 2

**First of all, I hope you enjoyed the first part of the fic…thank you for your kind comments and follows! Here is the second part (the third installment will arrive soon as well). This bit should definitely get the M-rated label, you be warned. I am sorry for the lack of plot, I just can't seem to write fics with an elaborate plot and I'm sorry. I hope it's somewhat tasteful, if not, let me know what you think and I'll take it as a lesson for the future!**

**V. Spicy**

With three days remaining until the end of the month, the end of the twenty-seven days, Margaret's growing restlessness presented itself as a sweet nerve, similar to how she had felt as a child when an exciting event had been approaching. At times she found herself daydreaming instead of focusing on the novel in her hands or the plate of soup on the table in front of her. She indulged in letting the nerve take over for a couple of seconds when she was alone, but when she was in the company of others she had to smother the feeling in her stomach.

She did not want others to know how her state of mind was affecting her daily rhythm. However, in her efforts to appear calm and collected, Margaret exaggerated her act so much that people who had never met her before would look at her countenance and interpret her frowning exterior as a sign of extreme ill-humor. In such situations she became quite aware of how her own body was becoming a burden; she was not supposed to feel anything like this, let alone give in to that feeling. Her state of being was gradually growing into a vile thing that she wished she had not come to known at all.

That night something happened that definitely did not help to calm down Margaret's nerve. If anything, it made her physical condition much worse.

It all began with Mr. Thornton's proposition in the semi-darkness. His words reached her after he had undone himself from the majority of his clothing; only his shirt and trousers had remained, and he had undone the first two buttons of his shirt.

"There is something I want to ask you. Or rather, ask _of_ you," he said, while he sat down next to her on the edge of the bed.

"I am listening," Margaret said.

"I wish-" he stopped, "would you-" he stopped again and sighed, "promise me you will tell me if you do not want me to do what I am about to suggest, for it is something that might shock you. Promise me, Margaret."

She nodded, not sure if the feeling that crept up her spine was anticipation or something else, "I promise."

"I-" he began hesitantly, then with more confidence but with a blush rising on his cheeks, "I have kissed all of these places," he said, touching her face with his hand, his thumb moving from her lips to her jaw, and from her jaw to her neck, "but tonight I wish to see and kiss _all_ of you."

Margaret could promptly feel her own cheeks burning, and the sound of his voice was still in her ears even though he had stopped talking. She did not know where to look. She did not dare looking him in the eye, and she was afraid that looking away would be impolite. She found a middle ground by staring down at her own hands, while her fingers pulled at the fabric of her nightgown.

Kissing _all_ of her? She had not even been aware of that possibility. How had this come about all of a sudden? She was not certain if she wanted to know how he already knew what he wanted to do to her in detail, while she had always been in the dark about those things herself. It was likely that he had thought about this before, and this idea made the back of her neck tingle.

She was torn. Her hesitance originated from the same source that told her that she should accept his request: her brain. Was this not cheating? Did his proposed act not immediately spoil their agreement to wait? She was not certain, but she did not dare asking him. She quickly reasoned that the practices that went on in their private sphere were their secret to keep, and this realization caused a sweet anticipation to grow in her limbs and the pit of her stomach. If she knew him well enough (and she was positive that she did know him quite well by now), he would be gentle with her. This idea was enough of a reassurance for her to yield to his desire to press his mouth against previously uncharted territory.

Margaret got up from the bed. Mr. Thornton - under the impression she got up because he had offended her – stood up as well, ready to apologize. She stared up at him with arched brows, and without a further word she started unbuttoning the first button of her nightgown, trying to ignore her shaking hands. She hadn't given herself too much time to contemplate his idea, knowing she would start to regret her impulsive decision if she thought about it for too long.

When he understood what she was doing, he sat back on the edge of the bed. She could see him glancing up at her from underneath his eyelids every once in a while as she progressed with her buttons. He had never seen much of her bare skin, but this was about to change, and the idea scared her but exhilarated her at the same time.

Once she had finished the row on the front of her nightgown, she had to collect herself for a moment to gather courage. She could do this - she could be brave. She pulled the obstructive material over her head, feeling how the cold air in the room affected her unprotected skin immediately.

It was her husband's turn not knowing where to look: his gaze was fixed at what seemed to be his own knees. This realization made Margaret feel so overly exposed that she felt a lump rise in her throat. Here she was, completely bare before him, and he did not even dare to look at her!

She stepped closer to the bed and draped her nightgown over the edge, her hands lingering against the fabric a little too long, as though she was holding onto it for leverage.

"John?" she asked, her voice shaking. His eyes snapped to her head, completely trying to avoid the further expanse of her skin. Margaret felt the tears sting in her eyes. Why did he react to her like this? Had she done something wrong?

She said his name again, louder this time, and she wished she could stop her voice from wavering. She reached out for him with one hand, and all she wanted was for him to acknowledge her. To her great relief he took her hand and pulled her closer, making her stand in between his legs. He finally dared to look at any parts of her physique that were not located above her shoulders.

"I am sorry," he said solemnly, "I was overcome, that is all. You are beautiful."

He looked up at her, and she could just make out how large his pupils were while she bent down to kiss him, her hands at the sides of his head and her fingers in his hair. She could feel him reach out and place his hands on her sides, where they remained stationary as though he did not know what to do with them. She leaned back, her fingertips still in his hair. Neither of them knew what to say. His lips were parted, his thumbs moving up and down against her skin.

Then in an impulsive (but slightly reckless) act of passion, he pulled her against his body as closely as he could and pressed his mouth against a spot just below her clavicle.

"You should probably lie down," he said, his breath tickling her skin. She followed his instructions, lying back with her head against her pillow. He followed, lying down next to her on his side, leaning in so he could reach every extremity of her skin.

He started his journey by kissing her mouth, one of his hands at the base of her neck. He had not been exaggerating when he had promised to kiss _all_ of her. He took his time, paying attention to her face (nose, cheeks, and forehead included), her neck, a stray freckle on her shoulder, and her clavicles. He reached out for her hands and kissed the palms as well as the pulse point in her wrists. He then moved down to press his mouth against her sternum and her breasts.

Margaret watched his every move carefully, leaning into his touch every now and then and sighing contently. He moved lower yet, not neglecting her ribs and navel. She could see his nose bending against her body, and she bit down on her lip when his tongue darted out, leaving small damp trails all over her stomach.

And yet, too soon, he had reached that place she had not wished to think about. She was grateful that he did not continue immediately but stopped to look up at her. One of his hands was at her hips, his fingers dipping into the clefts and curves there.

"Shall I use my fingers first?" he asked.

To Margaret the idea of him continuing his journey with his hand seemed comforting. She agreed by nodding her head, not daring to speak out loud. She felt his hand moving carefully to come at rest between her legs. She bent her leg, providing him with better access and herself with more comfort. He seemed unsure about how to proceed, because at first his hand lay there, dormant, and his eyes were shimmering with concentration as well as fascination.

Eventually, his fingers started exploring her. His touch felt rather foreign: it even felt slightly unpleasant at first. Margaret whispered that he should not be pressing as hard as he did, her face hot with unnecessary shame as she made that remark.

His touches became feather-light, not just for her sake but for his own as well: he was mapping her out, wanting to know which road he had to walk down to make her writhe. Eventually, for a reason Margaret could not place his fingers started gliding against her more easily, and her discomfort was replaced by something else entirely. She was certain he could feel how her pulse was beating in the places he was attending to, and she could barely control the way her body wanted to meet up with his fingers.

"Am I doing this right?" he asked, his cheeks turning a darker shade of red.

"I-I think so, yes. Is it supposed to feel like this?" Margaret said, feeling quite small all of a sudden.

"What do you mean?" he said, stopping his ministrations for a moment, "I am not hurting you, am I?"

"No," she shook her head, trying to avoid his gaze. She bit her lip, and with a voice so altered and soft she was surprised she could even hear herself, she said: "but when you – when you touch me, can you feel my pulse?"

Mr. Thornton looked at her, understanding washing over his face all of a sudden, as he realized that his wife was not strictly speaking familiar with the part of her anatomy he was paying attention to.

"Do you know what you feel like?" he asked. Margaret shook her head, confirming his suspicions.

"Give me your hand," he said; it sounded like a command rather than a question, but Margaret trusted him completely. It was then that she realized how important the trust-building between them had been. If he had asked her to do this on their first night, she would have panicked, but now she was anticipating what he was about to do.

She reached down, and he caught her hand with his own. He put her hand where his own had been just moments before. He guided her every moment with his fingers.

She had expected wanting to pull away immediately, but to her own surprise she did not feel this urge at all. Perhaps the feeling of shame stayed absent because he was teaching her how her body worked.

Her own hands were smaller, her fingers more delicate than his, and yet her own strokes against her body made the place underneath her fingers throb. Margaret had not been aware that this was an option, either; that women could touch themselves in such a way. She thought of the act itself as improper, although the actual practice led her to believe that the only result was pleasure.

She had to bend her leg a little further to reach all the places he directed her to. He was making sure she felt every spot of the soft, sensitive, and slightly damp flesh. She even felt one of her fingers slip into the first inches of the entrance of her body, but that sensation felt so strange and overwhelming that she did not repeat it, for the sound her fingers made against that spot made her shy away. The wetness she had felt there was what she was most surprised about. Was this what her body did when she found herself in such a heightened state? It would account for his touches starting to sting less earlier on, and Margaret assumed it was nature's way of facilitating the process they were slowly working towards. She hoped he would not be annoyed because of the way her body behaved, for she could not help it. It was his own doing after all, he had caused her to react in such a way.

After a while he let her do all the work, barely covering her hand anymore but still brushing his thumb against her knuckles every once in a while. He had seen the hesitance in her movements when his hand left hers, because he tried to soothe her.

"It is alright, Margaret," he said, "this is all you."

Margaret realized the absurdity of it all. He had not even needed an hour to figure out how her body worked, whereas this body had been hers for years, and she could not even call herself familiar with most of its functions.

And gradually, while she was getting lost in herself, the repulsion she had harbored against giving in to such desires started to fade. She started to feel the desperation soaring through her veins, and she needed more still, because the friction was not enough. Her fingers began stroking more furiously, her breath hitching with every move. She felt herself growing lighter, and she was nearly ready to float away when a voice pulled her back down, back to the bed. At once, Margaret became very conscious of the position and state of her own body.

"Please, leave something for me."

Mr. Thornton's voice was so low in volume and tone that Margaret could barely hear it, and he was not doing it on purpose: it was the only way he knew how to speak at that moment.

He shifted his body, kneeling in between her legs. He tried to avoid touching any of the parts below her waistline, not managing very well because Margaret could feel the fabric of his trousers rub against her legs. He kissed the back of her hand before she retreated it and lifted it into eyesight, inspecting the residue of her bodily fluids that had settled on her fingers. She rested both of her hands on her stomach, as she was not quite sure what to do with her limbs.

He pushed against her knees, urging her to keep her legs further apart. She could feel his fingers against her once more, but this time it was less experimental: it was to create space for his mouth. She could see and feel him bend over her, and then his mouth touched the spot where her own hand had been. For the life of her, Margaret could not stop herself from gasping.

At first he kissed her like he would kiss her mouth, carefully and tenderly, but the tenderness soon faded when she felt his tongue against her, folding it, curling it, and dragging it up her sex.

All these new sensations were as new for Margaret as they were delicious, and a languid and slightly surprised "oh" escaped her. She tried to bite her lip to keep the sound in, but failed. She shut her eyes tightly, partly because of the excitement, but mainly because she felt like he would not be able to hear her if her eyes were closed; it made her feel she could hide from him. Of course this was highly illogical, for he had heard after all. He chuckled against her, and she thought she could hear a hint of pride in this noise.

He leaned back, his fingers brushing against the paths his tongue had followed moments before. The nearer his fingertips came to the front of her body, the harder Margaret had to try to stop her legs from twitching. Her hand shot down, grasping his fingers and pressing them against that tiny spot that, upon being touched, made her whole frame jump. It was as though she had found the relief for the itch she had felt…an itch that had seemed impossible to scratch before.

"Oh, I see," was his reply while he looked down pensively. He sought her gaze then, his eyes not leaving hers while he slowly rubbed patterns against the place she had indicated. He then resumed his actions with his mouth without taking away the friction of his fingers, and that combination proved to be heavenly.

Margaret moaned softly into the air. She felt herself growing estranged from her own body, because her heart was beating erratically in her ears, her chest, and other (more delicate) places. Her hands grew restless. She found herself pulling at the sheets around her at first, but when that did not feel satisfactory enough she grasped for the hair on his head. Her mind started begging her body to let go from that force it seemed to be carrying within her; her own anatomy had her in chains.

Her mouth grew dry because she could not keep it closed. The wordless sounds inside her mind transformed into the shape his name. _John_. The proper noun became a cadence that expanded itself in her mind at first, then filled her lungs and mouth before it finally came spilling over her lips. This was all this fault; his fingers kept brushing against her, his tongue was tasting her - inside and out; and he, _he…_

No coherent thought remained, and Margaret was no longer certain if her cries crossed the border of her lips or not. It felt as though her body had reached its breaking point, giving in and toppling over. Her back arched on its own accord, and in low down inside her body she felt something she could only describe as pleasant convulsions. She barely even noticed how her fingernails had dug into his scalp.

The feeling subsided gradually, yet rather too quickly for her liking. Margaret lay there, still but not quite silent. Her breathing was embarrassingly loud, and her chest was heaving. The feeling between her legs was different now: it was no longer an ache, but a pleasant, satisfied pounding of her heart pulse in places it would not normally be felt.

Mr. Thornton lay down next to her, and Margaret swallowed away the dryness in her throat before she kissed him. She realized she had missed the presence of his mouth against hers, but now she tasted something on his lips and tongue that had not been there before.

"Would you tell me how that felt?" he asked, brushing away a strand of hair from her temple.

Margaret remained quiet. She tried not to wonder how he knew what her body had done, and tried to recreate the sensation in her mind instead. No matter how many adjectives she used, she could not possibly express the feeling of utter abandon she had felt. With a body numbed by sensations she crawled to the edge of the bed and pulled on her nightgown. She was glad to be wearing something to protect herself from the temperature of the room, and to have something to hide the blush (the very one that was showing on the entire expanse of her skin) as well.

"It was unexpectedly pleasant," she said, wanting to continue, but she fell quiet and settled down next to him on the mattress again. She honestly did not know how to express herself in this instance.

"I am glad of it," he said, not pushing her to add any more details.

Margaret realized she had been brushing her fingers against the side of his neck to distract herself. She felt the goose bumps rise on his skin.

"Margaret," he started once again, "if there is anything you wish to do, in the same way I asked of you tonight, please tell me."

There were things she wished to see, to take up in her mind, even if it would not soothe her, but she was too hesitant to ask because she feared it might mean committing herself to something she did not want. She had felt what his affected body felt like against her when he had pressed down against her a few nights before, but she had not the desire to reach out and touch. She simply wanted to _see_.

"Please do not misunderstand me," she said, "I love you, but I do not want…that. I fear I have already given all of my courage to you tonight."

"I understand."

Margaret sighed.

"If I must be honest, there is one thing," she tucked her head underneath his chin. With her eyes closed she whispered: "I want to see what your body looks like. I want to be certain about what is going to happen when this month passes, but most importantly I want to see you…all of you."

Mr. Thornton left her side, standing up from the bed. Margaret watched while he undressed, but when he had finished and looked down at her, she felt the same degree of shame he must have felt when she appeared before him in that state of undress. She tried not to blink too obviously while she took in every part of his anatomy, and even in the limited light the candles in their room provided she could see how his underlying muscle structure moved. She noticed that he, too, was ashamed, because when he laid down next to her on his side he tried to shield himself from her glances.

Despite her own body being covered, Margaret was the one feeling exposed. She reached out, surprised at how warm his chest felt underneath her fingers. Her fingers swept across the hollow of his throat, and she pressed one kiss to each of his collar bones. She nestled her face against his chest, her nose bending against his ribcage.

"Shall I tell you what is supposed to happen?" he asked.

Margaret could not help but glance at all of his physique once again, past the trail of dark hair that decorated his abdomen. She thought about everything that had transpired between them, and she realized he would not have to tell her: she had already known before this evening started, her body had just been in a state of denial.

"I believe I might know," she said, looking up. The look on Mr. Thornton's face displayed his concern, where Margaret did not feel anything at all at that moment; her mind had simply gone numb. He laced his fingers through hers and placed their hands on the left side of his chest, where his heart was beating steadily in his ribcage.

"It will just be us, Margaret, it will be alright," he promised her.

As it turned out, it was a promise he would have to break.


	3. Chapter 3

**Alright, here we go, the last part! Since this fic didn't start out as a chaptered story, I never realized that the last line of the previous chapter would actually make quite the cliffhanger, I'm sorry about that. I'm also sorry for keeping you waiting. It took me rather long to get this chapter up because I decided to re-write quite a large part of it, and in the middle of writing I sudden got a crippling insecurity about my writing abilities. This is why your kind responses to my fic were so important to me, because they fueled my inspiration (I just felt like you deserved to know that). Feel free to share your thoughts on this last part, or, you know, just enjoy it in silence, it's up to you! I hope it's a satisfactory ending to this story. Thanks for reading!**

**VI.** **Salt**

With one night remaining, Margaret grew quieter than ever. She could not help but ponder what had happened to her in a physical sense, and she constantly had to berate her mind for lingering at the thought of his mouth against – no, she would not allow those thoughts to occupy her mind.

It was evening, long after dinner, and she found herself in the library with a novel in her hands, but she was unable to concentrate on the dancing words in front of her eyes. There was a quiet pounding low in her body, which she desperately tried to ignore.

The floorboards behind her creaked with the weight of someone approaching her corner of the room, and she looked up, startled. She wondered who could possibly have caused the noise. She thought she had been alone in the room, but apparently she had been mistaken. She closed the book and put it down in her lap, her hands folded across it as though she wanted to protect the volume she had been reading.

"Have you been standing there for long?" she asked her husband, who was watching her from the darker shadows of the low-lit library.

"I walked in here five minutes ago, but you did not seem to notice me," he said, stepping closer to where she sat, and in the dim light Margaret could see the half-smile on his face. It was a smile that hinted at mirth, and she was the source of his apparent amusement.

"You are right - I had not noticed you," Margaret said in all honesty, trying to make it look like she had been too engrossed in the book rather than in her own daydreams.

He stepped closer yet, leaning back against the mahogany desk, brushing his thumb across one of the grooves in the surface of the wood before looking down at Margaret.

"If you continue like this, you will have read every single book in the library before the end of the year," he began.

"I enjoy reading, there is fairly little else to do," Margaret said defensively, and quickly apologized because he might perceive her remark as rude towards his mother and her embroideries.

"I know you do not like to be in my mother's presence while I am occupied elsewhere, but must you really hide away in the library?" he asked.

"I apologize because your mother and I do not get along well. I try to make conversation with her, but I believe I should be allowed to excuse myself to the library if I wish."

"Is that the only reason why you are here? You are hiding from my mother?" he said with laughter in his voice.

Margaret looked down at her hands, unable to hide her shame. She could not tell him the whole truth, because she would embarrass herself right in front of him, and as a result he would be angry or disappointed, or both. The idea that she had allowed this feeling influence her so much went against everything that she had learned or read in her life, and it was pulling her apart at the seams.

She glanced up when his footsteps moved away from her. She thought he was leaving her, but he merely closed the door before returning. He kneeled in front of her chair, took the book out of her hands, and placed it on the desk.

"Margaret, I can tell something is bothering you. Would you care to enlighten me?"

"Oh, but I cannot tell you!" she exclaimed, hiding her face in her hands. She was not certain what she was trying to accomplish by concealing her features like that, but it felt safer.

"July starts tomorrow," she said, the sound of her voice muffled by her hands but still loud enough for him to hear.

Despite his goodwill, he mistook her revelation as a sign of her hesitance.

"I see. Do you feel like you are not ready yet?"

She shook her head, wanting to tell him that was not the case at all, that rather the opposite was true, but the words would not come out, simply because she was incredibly afraid of his judgment.

"If you trust me, love, you will trust me not to judge you harshly. I have learnt from my mistakes," he said, and his tone had become pleading.

Margaret dropped her hands. Would he still blame her if he had practically begged her to tell him about her troubles? If she could do those acts they engaged in at night almost without too much shame, she could do this. She took a deep breath, but there was no use in trying to steady her voice.

"_I cannot stand it_," she whispered, and then it came pouring out of her all at once, "this feeling. It is – it is devouring me whole and I wish I could stop it. I know I am not supposed to feel this way, and yet I cannot help it, and I cannot explain it, it is-"

"Incredibly distracting? Obstructs your clear thoughts at least once an hour? Makes your stomach hurt but not unbearably so?" Mr. Thornton added.

"Why, yes. How do you know?"

"Because I'm feeling the same," he said softly.

She blinked, "I had thought it would not bother you so much."

Mr. Thornton frowned, not sure what to think of her remark, "why would you say that?"

"You are-" Margaret said, feeling the words leaving her before she had thought about their implications, "a man."

His frown became even more prominent: "In the past you might have taken me for an unrefined fellow unfamiliar with the softer passions, but surely that opinion has changed by now? I might be a man, but one who loves you more than anything in this world, and one who is willing to change an agreement if that is in your best interest."

"You would?" She looked at him, "does that mean we could, well," she hesitated, "_tonight_?"

"Tonight," he confirmed, "we could leave the library behind right now, in fact. After all, I am doing you the service."

He got up and reached for her hand. She took it readily, their actions louder than words. He blew out the candles in the library, and Margaret's book remained on the desk, forgotten.

Two hours later, Mr. Thornton had fallen asleep, but Margaret lay in the dark, tasting the salt of her silent tears. She had kept strong in front of him, but when she heard his breathing pattern change into a rhythm that signaled sleep, the tears had started to fall. Disappointment would not even start to cover what she felt. Worse even, her feelings were not the only things that had got hurt.

Everything started out as she had wished to, nothing that signaled the small disaster that was awaiting her. He helped her undress, until every single layer of her clothing had been discharged. In her turn, she helped him to get out of his clothes as well.

Margaret made quick work of her hair, not wanting him to help because his large hands were hardly suited to pull down her curls; it would only delay the process. When she was done, he brushed her hair out of the way and planted slow kisses against her bare neck and shoulders. She closed her eyes, grasping onto all the things she made him feel. She felt his nose against the back of her neck repetitively before he spoke up, articulating slowly in a futile attempt at hiding the tremble in his voice.

"Come to the bed with me."

Her heart sped up. She turned around and let him lead her to the bed.

They settled on the mattress, Margaret lying on her back on the top of the sheets, the upper half of his body against hers, their legs not yet entangled. Feeling his bare skin against hers was yet another new sensation she had to get used to. His body was warm and unexpectedly soft in some places.

Their touches were tentative at first, searching for limits and bodily irregularities. Once they had grown accustomed to each other, their movements became blunter, their kisses hotter and open-mouthed. No distinction was made between who was kissing who; they were in this together.

His hands started working down her body, the unsteadiness betraying his nerves. He reached between her legs, and his fingers seemed to remember all the places that could evoke a reaction from her. When he let one finger enter her she closed her eyes - he had not done _that_ before.

"I've been wanting to do that," he confessed softly.

Margaret nearly hid her face in the pillow next to her to hide her shame at those words: she did not handle his verbal intimacies well. Despite her embarrassment she still managed to smile and tell him he did not have to justify himself. Although her growing wetness quickly soothed the friction she had felt at first, it felt strange to have him acting so intimately with her body. She tried to avoid those particular thoughts, knowing that an even more intimate act was awaiting her.

It did not take long before they both grew impatient, so when he asked her if she felt ready, she confirmed that she was.

He positioned himself in between her legs and touched her sex tentatively, before touching his own to make sure he was headed in the right direction. When he sank into her, it was hesitant, not all at once.

Margaret nearly bit through her tongue.

He had told her it might hurt, but no one could have prepared her for this. She tried to ignore it, but the pain when he entered her, pulled back, and thrust back again, was so sharp she could not focus on anything else. When Margaret had told him that she felt ready, she had been referring to her mental state of preparedness, not her physical state. Poor Margaret had overestimated her body's ability to take him.

It did not take long before Mr. Thornton noticed that something was off, for Margaret could not help the sounds of agony that escaped her every time he moved. He pulled out, but he had not the clearness of mind to ask her how he could make her feel more comfortable. (If he had asked her what was wrong, she could not have answered him, for she did not know how to word the precise cause of her pain).

Margaret managed to remain relatively calm, but she could not help apologizing over and over again until he wiped the apologies off her lips with his thumb.

"Stop, please," he said, try to comfort her as well as he could, "stop apologizing. You are not obliged to me and I cannot bear to see you hurt, and I cannot stand knowing it is me who is causing your pain."

"I am sorry," she uttered one last time against his thumb, and then (as her body's mechanism of hiding her shame, and not because she was so eager at that moment) she said: "do you think we should try again tomorrow?"

He shook his head, then answered her in all seriousness: "only if you want to, but try not to think about it too much. It will happen eventually; it does not have to happen tomorrow. There is no pressure. I just do not want to hurt you again."

No matter how hard he tried to hide it, Margaret could still hear the bitterness in his voice. It did not quite help that he turned his back to her and fell asleep quickly.

The disappointment, the shame, and the yearning she could not quite control, all of this added up to Margaret shedding quiet tears in the darkness, the saltiness lingering on her cheeks and her lips.

How could she have known that her body would give this reaction? She felt betrayed by her own physique, simply because she had been anticipating something so much while it turned out to be such a deception. Besides, it made her feel as though she had rejected him unwillingly, which was not very representative for her state of being: she wanted him, but she did not want the pain. The only consolation she had was that it might hurt less if they tried again, and this was not even a certainty.

In the morning, Margaret asked a servant to change the sheets.

It took her two days to get over the shame of her body's refusal, two days during which time stretched out as though seconds lasted twice as long. She would have tried not to think of her situation too much, if it had not been for the fact that Mr. Thornton refused to touch her altogether. The first time she noticed it was when she tried to lay a gentle hand on his arm and he took a step aside; the way he shied away from her touch almost made her cringe. He would not lay his hand on her shoulder with reassuring tenderness if they were alone, or make his hands linger just a little too long after taking something from her hands, or kiss her good-night. She interpreted her husband's behavior as his way of trying to deal with the insecurity she had given him. Her own confidence started to crumble, and after a day Margaret started to believe that she deserved this treatment.

As a result of her unhappiness she grew quiet again. Despite feeling the need to talk, she did not open her mouth, because she dreaded the conversation that would follow. In any other situation, or if the weight upon her chest had been caused by something else, she would have ventured to speak about it. This time, however, she found herself at a loss for words. How did people speak of such intimate, private matters? She found herself increasingly lost in her own worries and started to realize that remaining inside her cocoon of silence was not an option.

She found her voice on the second night of what felt like her atonement. She was pretending to be asleep, but the thoughts kept milling inside her mind, and she could no longer remain quiet.

"John?"

The figure next to her stayed silent in the dark. Margaret feared he might be sleeping, but his breathing pattern told her that he was not. Then she heard his sigh.

She continued, "I am so sorry. I believe that ignorance was bliss, in our case. Although I do not think I was being insensitive, I do regret this atmosphere that is growing between us."

More silence. Margaret heard her voice growing more desperate.

"It always seemed impossible to me to be able to miss someone when they are standing right beside me, but I have been missing you for two days now," she said, and swallowed, "all I want is for you to kiss me good-night again."

She was on the brink of an outburst of anger or tears, she was not quite sure which one. Just when she thought he would not react at all, she felt his hand against her arm. It was the briefest of touches, but she felt it quite clearly. He then reached out for her and pulled her close in rather an awkward fashion, for he could not see where her body was in this darkness; he could only feel her. He pulled her against his chest, his nose bent against her temple, whispering soft apologies into her ear. His words of regret went right down her spine.

"I have been a fool," he murmured.

Margaret felt sudden tears of relief sting in her eyes. She also felt that familiar tingle at the back of her neck once again. Her hands sought his face in the dark, her fingers tracing the outlines of his features, his unshaven skin raw against her fingertips. Her fingers skipped towards his mouth, and she could feel the corners of his smile twitching before she pressed a badly-aimed kiss against his upper lip. Their unspoken apologies were transformed into acts of tenderness in the middle of the night.

It took them two more nights of tentative touching (including her fingers tripping over his abdomen on their way south, finally taking up on his offer for her to get to know the intimate structures of his body) in the twilight of their bed chamber before they gave into temptation again.

Their second attempt could definitely be described as more successful than the first, for he had learned to prepare her body properly, and Margaret would not allow him to enter her before her body was somewhat on edge. The uneasy feeling while he moved inside of her was still there at first, just like she had expected and dreaded, but she noticed that it was different this time. This could not be described as pain at all, just a feeling she had to get used to.

She bit her cheek. Mr. Thornton asked her if he should stop, but she wordlessly urged him to go on.

She started feeling that buildup of pleasurable tension again, and a short laugh of relief escaped her when the discomfort left her altogether. Her laugh prompted him to stop moving, and he towered above her. As though on cue, they both looked down at the place their bodies were joined.

"Look at us," he whispered, and when he looked back at her she could see his pride through the sexually heightened state of his face.

"Please - continue," Margaret blushed. She did not want him to talk, not at that moment.

He resumed his thrusts, carefully, as though he was still scared to hurt her. At first, Margaret had been lying still under the presumption there was little she herself could do, but then she tried tilting her hips and picking up his rhythm, meeting him halfway. She realized that he liked it when she did that, so she repeated the motion. She thought she could see him biting back a profanity before he put his mouth against her throat, barely able to kiss her with his half-parted lips.

_"Margaret…"_

She felt_ – _for she felt it against her skin first, rather than heard it - her own name escaping him in clearly defined syllables. The echo of his voice shot straight to her core. She knew that if her own sounds had taken the shape of words, the same sort of breathless desperation would have been present. His voice was raw, mixed with something Margaret knew no one could possibly have heard before because he had saved it for her, and her only.

He leant back, his face no longer against her throat. His breath came harshly through his mouth.

"If you keep doing that," he said, his voice shaking, "I cannot – I might not be able to hold back."

"You do not need to hold back, not on my behalf," Margaret said, her fingers dancing from his slightly damp hairline to his nose, and from his nose to his mouth. When he spoke again, his lips formed patterns against her fingertips.

"I want this to feel good for you, too," he replied.

"Honestly, I think I can take it if you are less careful. You cannot break me."

"Margaret, you _bled_ last time."

Her face colored an angry red, "I daresay it is different now. It does not hurt, and we work together, can you not feel it?"

He tried to ignore her questioning glances.

"Yes, but-"

She sought his lips with her own and kissed him quickly. "Then do not hold back."

The carefulness with which he had pushed inside her decreased. Margaret allowed herself to focus on the way their bodies felt when they were so intimately connected, being able to enjoy this feeling for the first time. It was divine, but, unfortunately, also over quite quickly.

While his thrusts had been relatively smooth at first, they became more and more desperate, more frantic, and not a quarter of a minute later she watched the ecstasy claim his face before he collapsed on top of her. He was rather out of breath, his chest heaving against hers while he panted against her throat. She understood what he had meant with 'not being able to hold back' – it had fairly little to do with force but rather a lot with stamina. Once he had dragged himself off of her he stared at the ceiling, and she asked him how he felt while she wiped the hint of sweat off the nape of his neck. She silently regretted that she was nowhere near the state he was in.

"I am quite well," he said. The words in combination with his uneven voice and the look of exhaustion on his face made Margaret chuckle. "And you?"

"I am quite well, too," she said, trying to ignore the burning that was still very much present in her body, but she figured it would be egoistic to ask him to rid her of it.

Mr. Thornton shook his head.

"But you have not – well, like I have..." he did not sound satisfied.

"No, you are right, but-"

"Come here, Margaret," he shifted against his pillow and gestured that she should come towards him.

She shifted closer, and he – with much effort, or so it seemed – lifted his head and laid it upon her chest. His breath was labored while his hand was impatient against her breast, her ribs, and her waist, fumbling its way down her body…and then his fingers were where she was still so sensitive, still so wet.

She held his face in her hands, and the last eloquent things that crossed her mind was that he never failed to make her feel as though the world had momentarily ceased to exist beyond the sphere of their bodies and their minds. After that she did not put any thought to her situation. Perhaps this was for the best; if she had paid too much attention, she might have been mortified at the way her body was straining against him, her legs parting further while his fingers claimed her sloppily but effectively.

He tried to kiss her mouth, but Margaret could not kiss him back properly: she was only capable of whimpering against his lips. He resorted to watching her face closely, and she looked back until she could no longer keep her eyes open. Her head fell back against the pillow, blotchy colors behind her eyelids. In the heat of the moment she pressed his face down against her neck, where he took the opportunity to mutter declarations of love. She heard him properly just before her ears filled with the rush of blood that took hold of her body at once. She did not cry out this time, she did not even allow a breathless whisper to leave her while she climaxed.

The way he looked at her when she opened her eyes again could only be described at wonder mixed with an emotion she could not quite place. She wanted to ask, but she had temporarily lost her voice, and she figured he would not have to share everything with her. Some of this was his to keep, some of it was hers.

Kissing him once, but taking her time about it, is what she did before getting up from the bed; her own damp back made her shy away from embracing him at that moment.

"Wait-" Mr. Thornton said, rolling onto his side to keep her in his view, "you do not have to cover yourself tonight, please."

He helped her to get underneath the covers, not forcing her to touch him, but waited for her to take the initiative. She rolled onto her side as well, pressing her back to his chest, figuring he would not be too disgusted by the state of her body, or he would have let her know.

"I think I have found it," Margaret said.

"Hmm?"

She smiled to herself, enjoying this revelation in quietness for a moment before sharing it with him.

"The feeling I did not know how to describe at first, I mean. It bothered me that I could not find the words, but now I think I have found an accurate description."

She paused. Then, her voice low, and laced with sudden nerves, she said:

"_You made me see stars, John_."

They both kept quiet, her heart thudding in her ears, waiting for his approval.

"Hmm, I like that. Stars," he said, draping his arm over her waist, "you were not the only one to see them tonight, Mrs. Thornton."

"I know, I was there," she said lazily.

He swallowed audibly. "Margaret, I love you…just repeating myself in case you did not hear me earlier on – you seemed busy at the moment."

Margaret could not help shaking her head with laughter, but evidently she returned those three words with a little less teasing, and a little more verve. Most of the candles had stopped burning by then.

_And that is how Margaret started her journey into all of the flavors of the physical spectrum: from bitter disappointment from sweet lingering kisses that tasted like parts of her own anatomy, from languid, savory touches to frenzied brushing of fingers in sensitive places. She knew which flavors she preferred, but she would not have come that far without the experiences that tasted the worst. After the 'night it all went right', she never stopped adding new nuances of flavors, and she welcomed opportunities with open arms, even though she would never let on to the outside world._


End file.
